One of the best books I’ve ever read (without a doubt) is Eugen Herrigel’s Zen and the Art of Archery. The book is a short tale about the author’s time in Japan as he studied a special kind of Japanese archery under a Zen Master, who emphasised its spiritual aspect. For him, hitting the bullseye was only one part of being a good archer, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to rebuke his pupil even before the arrow had hit the target. No, he would even criticise the way the bow would be drawn, aimed, and released. For what he wanted to see wasn’t a technique or cultivated action. That would be what you expect, but Zen is often unexpected. Instead, Zen in archery is like this: “The archer ceases to be conscious of himself as the one who is engaged in hitting the bull’s-eye which confronts him. This state of unconscious is realised only when, completely empty and rid of the self, he becomes one with the perfecting of his technical skill, though there is in it something of a quite different order which cannot be attained by any progressive study of the art.” (Emphasis added.) For me, the book was a reminder that while it is all good fun to visit some basilica or temple, in fact some of the greatest riches of the spiritual life—arguably the greatest—are found outside the strictures of organised religion and are instead found in the ebb-and-flow of ordinary life.

I’ve never been one for archery. My “Katniss Everdeen era” was totally non-existent. I have, however, always loved longboarding, which is completely different but perhaps not as different as you may think. Longboarding, as you may know, first came about when surfers bolted some wheels onto their boards and began to cruise around their respective concrete jungles rather than on waves. And if you have any image of surfing in your mind, it is probably this: the thrill of riding a wave. I’ve always been a little aquaphobic (since I was never a fantastic swimmer), but still, the thought of surfing was an alluring one. Mankind creates damns and canals to control current, but surfing isn’t about controlling anything: you quite literally ride the wave. Longboarding was always ideal for me, then, though I never really stopped to think any deeper about why that was.

That all changed earlier this year when I purchased a new board. I was planning to enjoy the summer as best as I could, and for some reason, my mind was drawn once again to the allure of a longboard. So, I stopped by the shop where I had purchased my first board (called Longboard Living in Kensington Market), and had a good chat with the clerk about some events that were coming up. “Stay tuned,” he told me. A week or so later, I saw an even that immediately appealed to me: “Skate and Meditate”. I signed up right away—how could I not? I mean, one good thing is good, but two good things are great! And it was great. A good group of us spent the early afternoon in Trinity Bellwoods Park doing yoga, meditating, and (as if it needed saying) longboarding.

This whole experience (aside from being incredibly refreshing) got me thinking a little bit more about why I enjoyed longboarding in the first place. I don’t have an appetite for tricks or anything like that: I’ve seen too many bloopers to be at all interested in that. Rather, when people ask, I tell them I like “cruising” around, and that is just it. The art of longboarding is an art of surrender: like yoga, your whole body is involved in the process. You must balance on your board and kick off to get going. When you turn, your board turns with you. When you rest your feet on your board, you glide ever-onwards as if with the current, though there is none that pulls nor pushes you. You can feel the quality of the pavement beneath your feet, and of course you must pay mind to your surroundings, lest you hit or get hit by something else. In short, you are remarkably present in what you are doing; and as you feel the wind on your face, you are at once calmed by the fact that your feet are not moving. You and your board are one and swaying side-to-side to gain momentum, it feels as if you may be floating, though that would be impossible. You have effectively embodied your longboard, maybe even becoming identical to it. What is mindfulness if not this? Being mindful, being present, feeling at once active and at rest.

It is natural, of course, to worry about falling, but when you have truly found the right board, this is less of an issue. Hilariously, longboards are something like the wands of Harry Potter in that it and its user must be made for one another. I, for one, have a board that slightly dips in the middle, lowering my centre of gravity. It is long enough to support my wide stance (since I’m a tall person). And I have attuned the “sensitivity” of the trucks so that when I turn, I feel in sync with the board itself. There’s more to it, of course, but taking into account these and a variety of other factors, when a board is right for you, no doubt you will find yourself perfectly in motion, particularly on a smooth surface. When you experience this, it’s as effortless as breathing.

Like the bow and arrow of Herrigel’s book, longboarding is “only a pretext for something that could just as well happen without them, only the way to a goal, not the goal itself, only helps for the last decisive leap.” Truth be told, you might get the same experience I described from driving, biking, swimming, or even walking. Zen, enlightenment, mindfulness, or whatever you call it is not achieved only through one particular means. Moreover, I should not claim to be “zen” or “enlightened” because I’m not. I have a long way to go, or in fact no way to go at all since Herrigel would admit that “fundamentally the marksman aims at himself”. Nevertheless, I must say that the time I spend on a longboard brings me closer to this. You see, enlightenment is not limited to those who sit in meditation, although there is that. Instead, enlightenment can be found in the rhythm of movement, as it is in many eastern traditions (such as qi-gong or yoga). In fact, this is a tad more thrilling.

This is the art of longboarding. It is, for me, more natural than riding a bike. It is a new way to understand myself as well as my surroundings—a satori (“understanding”), if you will—and it is, I would argue, a manner more enjoyable than perhaps many others in which anyone could find a little more “zen”.